Page 42 of Killer Body

“Better than Tania Marie.”

“The Misfit. That one’s right on the money, at least. I wouldn’t have called Princess Gabby the Perfect Fit, but it gets pretty nasty about her, too.”

“I wouldn’t be calling the kettle black,” Jesse said. “At least that hick reporter didn’t call Gabby over-the-hill.”

“That phony royal pain in the ass should look so good when she’s my age.”

“She’s supposed tobeyour age, remember?” He pulled onto Colorado and slowed down, looking for the street that would lead to their hotel. “I think I took the wrong turnoff.”

He had absolutely the worst sense of direction of anyone she had ever known.

“I thought driving was genetic with men, part of the package, like balls.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? There’s no one listening. You mind turning off Rochelle the Bitch?”

“That’s what got me where I am. You can’t be a woman in this business and be anything else.”

“So why take it out on me?”

What did she say to that? That she’d seen more than polite interest in his eyes when he’d talked to Princess Gabby at Bobbo’s party? That she’d been treated like shit by a woman whose job it was to make her feel good about herself?

“I’m just tired,” she said.

“Me, too, but we need to come up with something, a plan.”

“That’s your job,” she said.

He turned and gave her one of the smiles that used to matter to her more than anything in the world, Hollywood included. “I think I have one.”

Gabriella

Because she needed to get up early for the newest Killer Body grand opening, they ended up staying at the Westin in Pasadena that Thursday. Respectable for the money, Christopher said, and Christopher never lied. That was something her soon-to-be-ex husband didn’t understand when he insisted that she kept Christopher around only because he kissed her ass. Being kind when one told the truth did not make one an ass-kisser.

The room was small in a cute, San Francisco kind of way, with a sectional sofa that stretched the entire width of it.

Christopher dismissed its peach-and-olive pattern with the same brief yet nonjudgmental frown he’d passed over the fake verdigris lighting fixtures.

“See there,” he said. “If you travel with three very small people, you can place them end to end on that.”

“You paid for the room, Christopher. You get the bed. It’s only fair.”

“Princess Gabby is not sleeping on anything that narrow. You wouldn’t be able to sit up straight tomorrow at the Killer Body opening, let alone walk.”

She looked at their remaining options: a queen-size, white-comforter-clad bed, a striped club chair right out of the fifties, a couple of small, round tables, that faux verdigris again.

“If I can do anything, I can stand up straight, let me assure you.”

She did just that as she spoke, feeling that thread that pulled her up from these momentary setbacks into what she knew she really was.

“I’m having a drink later with my friend Frank,” Christopher said. “I could probably stay at his place.”

“I don’t feel right about that.”

“Frank’s okay. Not my type, but I can count on him.”

“And we can all count on you,” she said. “Why can’t I find a straight man at least half as decent as you are?”

“Because when they made me, they broke the mold?”